Drop Dead Beautiful

by Jackie Collins

  She had plenty of information about Anthony’s drug activities. He’d taken her to Colombia on more than one occasion, and she knew some of the names of the people he dealt with. She’d also witnessed many of his late-night business transactions in Acapulco.

  Yes, she knew more than enough. But how to get to a phone, that was the problem.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” she informed The Grill.

  “You wait,” the big man said, glowering.

  “I can’t wait,” she said sharply. “I need to go now.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  Reluctantly The Grill escorted her to the ladies’ room, where he stationed himself outside.

  The moment she got inside the restroom, she quickly looked around to see who else was in there.

  A redheaded woman was standing at the sink washing her hands.

  “Excuse me,” Irma said, approaching her. “Would you happen to have a cell phone I can use? I left mine at home and it’s kind of urgent.”

  “I don’t, dear,” the woman said, drying her hands. “Damn thing wouldn’t fit in my purse. My friend might have one, though.”

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “Making a tinkle.”

  Irma stared at the closed stall door, willing the woman’s friend to emerge.

  “Are you all right?” the redheaded woman asked. “You look awfully pale.”

  No, I am not all right. Earlier today I watched my husband cut off my lover’s balls in front of me. And now my insane husband is threatening to kill me and my parents.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she managed. “But I do need to make this call, it’s very urgent.”

  “We should go outside,” the woman suggested. “I’m sure my husband has his phone.”

  Before she could think of an excuse, the other woman, a petite brunette, emerged from one of the stalls.

  “Ah, Doreen,” the redhead said. “Do you have your phone on you?”

  “Yes, why?” Doreen asked.

  “I promised this lady she could use it. She has to make a quick call.”

  “The battery might be low,” Doreen said, reaching into her purse. “I’m always forgetting to charge it.” She handed Irma a pink sequined phone.

  Irma pulled out Oliver’s card and squinted at the numbers again. Office. Home. Cell.

  She chose cell and quickly punched out the number, moving away from the two women who were now chatting about the reception and how much they were enjoying it.

  Her hands were trembling, any moment now Anthony might return and come busting in.

  She misdialed, tried again, and finally the number rang.

  Please God, let Oliver pick up.

  Please God, let him answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Oliver,” she gasped. “It’s Irma. I need your help.”

  Chapter 85

  The reception was winding down. A series of assistant P.R.’s were attempting to usher the most famous guests to the red carpet pathway where they would be photographed and interviewed by the many photographers and TV crews as they made their way to the lingerie show.

  Lucky was swamped, what with everyone attempting to speak to her, members of her staff giving her a series of updates, Gino trying to attract her attention, and now a wedding to get together in a matter of hours.

  She elicited the help of Mooney, who knew everyone in Vegas, to arrange the wedding chapel and keep everything quiet. If the news of Venus and Billy’s impending nuptials got out to the press, it would be chaos.

  Next she spoke to her catering and entertainment directors about organizing a small, extremely exclusive private reception in her penthouse later that night.

  “A very close friend of mine is getting married,” she informed them, revealing no names. “It has to be special.”

  They assured her it would be. Everyone who worked with Lucky loved her—she had a way of inspiring great loyalty and enthusiasm.

  “Have you seen Max?” she asked Lennie when he appeared to accompany her down the red carpet.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “And I was looking forward to meeting the new boyfriend.”

  “Don’t say ‘boyfriend’ around her, she’ll kill you.”

  “Something wrong with ‘boyfriend’?”

  “She wouldn’t like it.”

  “Then I won’t say it.”

  “That’s wise.”

  “Gino’s waving at you.”

  “I know. Let’s try to get over to him. I can’t seem to make a move without a dozen people attempting to stop me.”

  “In that case, grab hold of my arm and hang on. Smile a lot, I’ll get you there.”

  “You’re so macho.”

  “And handsome, right?” he quipped. “Isn’t that why you married me?”

  “Oh yes!” she said, laughing as he propelled her through the crowd until they reached Gino.

  “What’s up?” she asked her father.

  “Somethin’s not right,” Gino replied, rubbing the scar on his cheek.

  “Not enough ice in your drink?” she said flippantly. “Music too loud? What?”

  Gino’s face was serious. “Enzio Bonnatti’s widow is here with a supposed grandson,” he said. “I don’t like it, Lucky, they’re up to somethin’, an’ you’d better find out what it is. She had a crazy hostile look in her eyes. Kept on muttering about the hotel being cursed. They’re here for some kind of revenge—you can bet on it.”

  When Anthony came back with an angry Francesca lagging behind him, he was perplexed to find Irma missing.

  “Where the fuck is she?” he demanded of The Grill.

  “In the ladies’ room,” the big man muttered.

  “What the fuck you let her go there for?”

  “She told me she had to go.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Anthony steamed, walking over to the door of the ladies’ room. “Irma!” he yelled. “Get your ass out here.”

  Irma came out immediately.

  He glared at her. “I told you not to go anywhere. When I tell you somethin’, you’d better fuckin’ listen.”

  She refused to look at him.

  “Where’s Emmanuelle?” he demanded, turning back to The Grill.

  “Over there, boss,” The Grill said.

  Anthony observed Emmanuelle talking to a man. He’d told both women to stay next to The Grill, not to go running around all over the place. Amazing wasn’t it, that he had to control everything?

  Taking hold of Irma, he pulled her over to Emmanuelle, who was in midsentence. Anthony grabbed Emmanuelle’s arm, yanking her away from the man.

  “That was so rude,” Emmanuelle objected, her cheeks flushed. “That man is a very important producer. He told me I should be in movies.”

  “I don’t give a shit who he is,” Anthony snapped. “When I tell you to stay somewhere, you stay there. Got it?”

  Irma met the girl’s eyes.

  Emmanuelle stared back at her defiantly before turning to Anthony and saying, “You shouldn’t speak to me like that. I’m not your wife.”

  Anthony controlled an overwhelming impulse to slap her across the face. Emmanuelle was getting too lippy for her own good. It was time to do something to put her in her place.

  “Are you sure your heart can take this?” Lucky teased Gino as she escorted him to the front row of the lingerie show.

  “Think I’ll survive, kiddo.”

  “Oh yes, I almost forgot,” she said, smiling. “Your nickname used to be Gino the Ram, right?”

  Gino’s mind was elsewhere. “What didja do ’bout the Bonnattis?” he said, frowning. “Didja get ’em outta here?”

  “Not yet. There’s press everywhere, it wouldn’t be smart to cause an incident.”

  “Whaddya think they’re doing here?” he mused.

  “They’re probably just checking the place out.”

  “You don’t know Francesca like I know that witch,” Gino said, still worrying. “She had balls whe
n she was married to Enzio, big brass balls. I’ll never forget her sittin’ in the courtroom when you were on trial for Santino’s murder. She sat there every day, glaring at you, vowing revenge. You don’t remember?”

  “That whole trial is a blur.”

  “I remember it, kiddo. They’re here for a goddamn reason. I can smell it.”

  “You’re wrong, Gino. All that stuff happened so long ago.”

  “Listen to me, Lucky: she’s Sicilian. It don’t matter how long ago shit happened, Sicilians never forget an’ they never forgive. Have your security people watch ’em, okay?”

  “I’ll do that. Where are they anyway?”

  “Last time I saw ’em they were at the reception.”

  “I’m leaving you here, but I’ll be back. The show’s starting in five minutes. I only hope you survive it!”

  “Oh, he’ll survive it all right,” Paige said, leaning forward. “He’ll love every minute of it. He might be ninety-five, but believe me, he’s still breathing.”

  Alex did not care how adept Ling was in the bedroom—it was over, her constant jealous bitching about Lucky had finally taken its toll. When they got back to L.A. he was definitely telling her to move out. He’d sooner be by himself than stuck with a woman who really didn’t understand him at all. Ling should be with somebody who enjoyed getting the shit nagged out of him.

  Besides, he had his movie to edit, no time for Ling. Being in the editing room seventeen hours a day was relationship enough.

  Upstairs in their suite, he conducted a search for his watch. It was a special gold Patek Philippe watch given to him by Lucky at the end of the movie they’d produced together. Lucky had inscribed on the back, I’ll always remember our time together. Lucky.

  It was an ambiguous inscription that could mean anything. He chose to think it meant their one night together long ago. Only realistically he knew it didn’t. Because of Lennie. Because Lucky was not a cheater, she was a woman of principle. It was one of the things he loved most about her.

  It occurred to him that maybe Ling had hidden the watch somewhere. He wouldn’t put it past her—once she’d read the inscription, she’d gotten very uptight, claiming the watch was too flashy for him to wear. Flashy! It was a Patek Philippe, for Christ’s sake.

  He knew the real reason she hated it. It was a gift from Lucky, and that was enough to set her off.

  He was getting more livid by the minute, convinced Ling had stashed it away. Unzipping her suitcase he started rooting around, finding no watch, but coming up with an envelope that he took out and opened. Inside were several Cartier cards, and on each card were written the words Drop Dead Bitch. The word Bitch looked as if it had been scrawled in blood.

  What the hell was this all about?

  Then he remembered Lucky over lunch in Vegas telling him about the odd notes she’d been receiving.

  Jesus Christ! Had Ling been sending Lucky hate mail? He couldn’t believe it. What kind of psycho was his live-in girlfriend turning out to be?

  This was most definitely a reason to get rid of her permanently.

  The woman’s body buried out in the desert, wrapped in plastic like a shroud, was dug up and taken back to the city where she was immediately identified by her former husband.

  Tasmin Garland. Murder victim.

  And Detective Franklin had no doubt who did it.

  Chapter 86

  Before Max could run too far, Henry caught up with her, tackling her to the ground, where he pinned her with a steel-like grip on both her arms, his body half over hers.

  For a man with a gimpy leg he could sure move fast, and he was surprisingly strong.

  “What do you want with me?” she shouted, determined not to give in to this creep again whether he had a gun or not. She was Lucky Santangelo’s daughter and she realized she’d better start fighting back. Girls can do anything—Lucky had taught her that ever since she could remember. It was time for action.

  “Maria,” he crooned, his disgusting breath in her face. “Why are you trying to run away from me when surely you have realized by now that we belong together?”

  She lay very still on the damp ground. It was patently obvious he was a total whacko, and how best to get herself out of this situation? She had to think fast.

  “What’s your name?” she managed. “Your real name.”

  “Lord Grant,” he said grandly.

  “Lord Grant,” she repeated.

  “Yes. And I came here today for you, to take you to a place where people will leave us alone.”

  “What people?”

  “Lucky Santangelo,” he said, his voice full of animosity. “That woman is not a fit woman to be your mother, she will do nothing but corrupt you. God has sent me to save you, Maria.”

  How did God get into this? Was this guy a Jesus freak on top of everything else?

  “Do you know Lucky?” she asked, trying to move out from under him.

  “Yes, I know Lucky,” he said, spitting venom. “Lucky Santangelo ruined my life. However, out of bad comes good, and now I have you.”

  She shifted on the ground, thinking that at least she finally knew why he was targeting her. This whacko had some kind of grudge against her mom, and somehow or other she’d been dragged into it.

  Where was Ace when she needed him?

  Before the lingerie show started, Renee excused herself from Susie and went off to make a phone call. She reached Tucker Bond on the designated number he’d given her to be used only in emergencies.

  “I’m calling it off,” she said.

  “You’re doin’ what?”

  “Stopping the action.”

  There was a long silence. Tucker was used to clients changing their minds, but not at the last moment, not when everything was set up and ready to go.

  “Can you do it?” Renee asked.

  “I can do anything,” Tucker replied. “S’long as I get paid. In full.”

  “I understand,” Renee said. “Our financial arrangement still stands. You’ll get your final payment.”

  “Oh yes, I will.”

  “Then we’re agreed? It’s off.”

  “You’re the client.”

  Emmanuelle was in her element sitting amongst an audience dotted with famous people. They were all waiting to view the lingerie show, and she was proud to be one of them.

  Anthony had shoved his way into front-row seats. He was confident they had plenty of time before anything happened. The destruction of the Keys would not take place until after Venus’s concert, when everyone was outside for the fireworks display. How fitting that everything Lucky Santangelo had worked so hard for would go up in smoke.

  He’d sent his grandmother back to the Cavendish with The Grill to watch over her. She’d claimed she wasn’t feeling well, but he wasn’t sure he believed her. She was putting it on because she was pissed at him for dragging her away from Gino Santangelo. To make him feel bad she’d begun muttering about heart palpitations.

  “Stay with her,” he’d instructed The Grill. “If you think she needs it, call a doctor. I’ll be back soon.”

  He hadn’t wanted to miss out on humiliating his wife even further. How galling it must be for her having to walk around with him and his sexy mistress. How mortifying and degrading and fuck the cunt! He didn’t care. It was over between him and Irma. Tomorrow she’d be history, and if Emmanuelle kept on talking to other men, she’d be history too.

  “We’re going in the wrong direction,” Ace said. “The spa isn’t this way.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Cookie argued. “I passed it earlier.”

  “No!” he said urgently. “It’s at the back of the hotel. Come on, move it.”

  “Uh … if this freak had a gun last time, don’t you think we should maybe like call security?” Cookie ventured, trying to keep up with him.

  “Good thinking,” he said, realizing she was scared. “You go inside the hotel and alert security, I’ll find Max. And hurry up.”

  Lucky had no
idea who to look for. Gino had said Francesca Bonnatti and her grandson were trouble, but where the hell were they?